GILLIAM AND STEPHEN WAITED nervously at the side entrance to the King’s Hall. Although they were impeccable in their dark-brown velvet jackets, shadow-black pants, and gold-trimmed sashes, they were not nearly so ornate, so full of history, as even the door that lay closed before them. At a distance, that door seemed plain compared with the inlaid and wreathed great hall entrance that the nobles were using now to crowd the halls. But this close, one could see the fine quality of the darkwood beneath the cast-iron band; one could touch the cold stone frame, with its plain, gray surface free of any detailing or sculptor’s fancy. This door stood as it had always done since the first day of its making—the passageway for those who would step between youth and adulthood.
“Stop it.” Stephen’s whisper came from the depths of a carefully placed smile which faltered only as he watched Gilliam fidget.
“When are we going in?”
“When they call us.” Sighing, Stephen caught Gilliam’s collars and straightened them, as much to soothe his own nerves as to clear away any wrinkles. “Do you know what we’ve got to do?”
“Walk down the side path to the—”
The door swung open, and a green-robed Priest of the Hunter nodded to them both. Like the door itself, there was a deceptive elegance and age to the man. His robes, although simple, were the purest green of the Hunter; they needed no ornamentation. “Who are you who seek to enter?”
“Gilliam of Elseth and his huntbrother Stephen.” Gilliam bowed low, and remembered to keep his arms stiffly at his side.
“And what is your business?”
“We have come to offer our service to the Master of the Game.” It was the King’s Hunter title, and as such, the only one of many titles that Gilliam found easy to remember. “We have hunted together and we’ve completed the Triple Hunt.”
“And your proof?”
“Here.” Stephen stepped forward and held out a small, plain chest. He flipped it open; the rounded and well-oiled lid rested briefly and coolly against his chest as the Priest examined the stag hoof, bear claw, and boar horn carefully displayed therein.
The Priest passed his steady, large hand over the open box. The air tingled around the three for a moment before the Priest nodded to Gilliam. Gilliam left the rigid stance of his bow behind.
“You have done as you have claimed. Come, then. You are judged worthy to seek His audience.” The door swung fully open, and the dais which led to the King’s throne, and to the Master of the Game, came into full view. The throne itself was inset too far back to be seen without actually entering the room. It bothered neither Stephen nor Gilliam, for they had no intention of turning away.
Gilliam went first, as was his right and duty. He walked calmly, if a little quickly, and he looked neither to the left, with its long, floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting all of the greatness and glory of the Hunt, nor to the right, at the row of men clad in greens and browns, with their horns at their belts, and their weapons at their sides. They were not young men, not any of them—and they wore the scars caused by both prey and the passing years across their silent features. Stephen could not resist glancing at both the wall and the men, and it was Stephen who would remember it in detail. Quieted by the sight of so much finery and so much experience, he followed in Gilliam’s wake, his hands still clutching the box that the Priest had viewed. The effort kept him steady.
He had thought that Gilliam would be the nervous one, because Gilliam hated both public occasions and the crowds that came with them. But Gilliam, in bearing and stride, was already one with the Hunters that he had come this far to join; he didn’t falter or misstep.
Stephen did, but only once, when the dais opened up and the throne came into view, and he saw the King upon it. He had never seen the King before, although he had seen his likeness several times on most of the coinage of the realm, both in the lower city as a child and in Elseth as a youth. What he had expected, he did not know, or perhaps it just fled his mind, leaving only the reality behind.
The King was not a young man, but not as old as Soredon either. His hair was black shot through with a glimmering of gray that would one day overtake it all. His eyes, even from this distance, were a deep brown and seemed preternaturally large. He was not overly tall, but even seated he gave the impression of height, although the back of the throne dwarfed him, its simple wood edge bearing the horns of the very Stag itself above him. He wore a circlet of plain gold, yet without it he would still have been known as Master of the Game.
“Not yet,” someone whispered with amusement, and Stephen spun around to meet the crinkled corners of gray Hunter’s eyes. “You’ll be kneeling soon enough—make sure that you do it at your brother’s side.”
Embarrassment drove awe back to its proper place. Stephen walked briskly up the aisle, closing the distance between Gilliam and himself. His hands stopped their shaking; his pace grew measured and seemingly more confident. But he did not look at the King again. Instead he fastened his gaze neatly at the point on Gilliam’s back where shoulder blades bracketed spine.
He’s only a man, he thought, but the words were a tickle at his ear. He could not believe them, not when the very air seemed to glow in the perfect, silent hush. During the long trip to the King’s City, Stephen had been filled with many fears, most nameless—but among those had not been the fear of failure. He felt it keenly now. Although he knew his hunting craft as well as any huntbrother of his age, he felt raw and inexperienced. His hands began to tremble as doubt dwarfed the significance of the contents of the small Elseth chest.
Gilliam stopped walking and knelt three feet away from the King’s throne. Stephen made haste to join him, dropping to one knee as he opened the box and placed it before them both in supplication. He bowed his head.
“Who are you and why have you come?” The Master of the Game spoke at last, his voice as deep and purposeful as any fancy could have made it.
“I am Gilliam of Elseth. In my father’s name, I have hunted the Elseth preserves to feed her people and prove my worth.” Gilliam’s head, bowed, shadowed his legs in the flicker of torchlight and the sky seen through stained glass.
“And what have you hunted there?”
“The three.”
“When have you hunted them?”
“In their proper time.”
“And who will speak for you?”
“I will.” Stephen started slightly at the words; they were distant enough that they offered scant comfort, although he recognized Lord Elseth’s booming voice. “While Gilliam of Elseth has hunted in my name, I have hunted in yours.”
“So be it. Look at me now, Gilliam of Elseth.” The tone of the King’s voice changed slightly, a hint of amusement warming its depth. “You have the look of your father about you—and his father before him, if the portrait gallery indeed holds truth.” The voice cooled again. “But it is not in seeming that the Hunter judges. Who stands beside you?”
There was an eerie moment of silence before Stephen realized that his voice was meant to fill it. He remembered to keep his head bowed, and found fascinating creases in the dark folds of his tunic to hold his eyes. “Stephen,” he said, and his voice grew steady. “Stephen of Elseth.”
“And have you hunted at Lord Gilliam’s side?”
“I have.”
“What have you hunted?”
“The three.”
“And when have you hunted them?”
“In their proper time and at the need of the people of Elseth.” He almost looked up then, but he stopped himself; no permission and no order had been given. Still, the speaking of the words brought the comfort of an old truth, well understood by both speaker and listener.
“Who speaks for you, Stephen?”
Norn answered from a distance exactly as far as Lord Elseth’s. “I do. Stephen of Elseth has hunted at his brother’s side at the call of Elseth and her people.”
“So be it. Rise, Stephen of Elseth. Rise, Gilliam of Elseth. Come stand before me.”
Gilliam stood without effort and paused to offer Stephen a hand up. Stephen took it, leaving the chest behind. It had served its purpose and he did not think he could carry it.
“You have come to offer me your services, and I have seen that you are worthy to hunt with the Master of the Game. But I am also a worthy master. I will tell you of the risk and the Death that you face if you choose this path. There will be no other choice, and you cannot turn from it once you have begun—for all of Breodanir rests upon the choice once made.” The King rose then, discarding the finery of his throne. Behind his head, the antlers drew level with the circlet of gold, and he looked like the heart of the living forest.
“You will hunt in my name from this day forward, and I—I hunt in the name of the Hunter. This is my pledge to Him: that once a year I will call the Sacred Hunt, that he might Hunt, in return, those who serve him. You will hunt in my name, and perhaps in that Hunt you will earn Breodanir’s life by giving your own. But you might choose, in the King’s Forest, your own prey, your own hunt; you might bring, on that one day, your own dogs into domains that are otherwise solely mine.
“I accept your service, Gilliam and Stephen of Elseth. Do you choose now to honor your offer?”
Stephen thought that Gilliam would answer immediately and be done with it. Instead, Gilliam turned to him, one eyebrow lifted in question. There was no doubt at all in Gilliam’s mind, and no fear; this was the pinnacle of his years of training and hunting. He waited nonetheless on Stephen’s word and Stephen’s gesture—for no hunter came to the King without a huntbrother, and none left in his service without one by his side.
“We will serve the Master of the Game,” Stephen said, his voice very small.
The King raised his hands, and from the recess behind his throne two Priests emerged, each carrying a heavy green cloak. In silence they came to stand, one in front of Gilliam, the other in front of Stephen.
“This is the color of your office. Wear it proudly, Lord Gilliam of Elseth, in my name.”
Gilliam smiled and nodded as the gold leaf was fastened across his shoulders; the folds of deep, heavy green fell about his back like a perfect wave.
“And you, Stephen of Elseth, you share in your brother’s office. Wear these colors, as befits your station, in the name of the people of Breodanir.”
“And in your name, son of the Hunter.”
Pleased, the King smiled, and his smile deepened his face, revealing the warmth that lay beneath severity. He nodded again to the attending Priests. Simple horns, with mouths of silver, appeared in their hands. These were offered in turn to Gilliam and Stephen.
Stephen’s hands shook as he placed the horn in his sash. He could feel Gilliam’s pride and excitement, but when he snuck a glance, no sign of it showed. Gilliam stood a little taller, and perhaps his chest was farther forward than normal posture allowed, but that was all.
“Turn,” the King said quietly. “You wear the green of the Hunter now, and you have the blessing and approval of the Master of the Game. From this day forth, at this time, you will journey to the King’s City at my behest, and you will hunt in my forest. If you fail to do so, you will be stripped of your title and the honors that you have accepted this day; you will be shunned by the Hunter Lords and cast out by the Priests. No Hunter will speak your name, and your deeds will be forgotten. Your children, should you have issue at that time, will inherit in your stead if you hold the preserves of your family. If you do not, your lands will return to the crown, to be given to others who have proved themselves worthy.” The words were harsh, but the King’s tone made it clear that they were strictly a formality; he did not doubt those who had become Hunters in his name. “You are among equals now. Go into Breodanir in pride and with determination.”
Stephen did not gasp as he turned, but only because he lost his breath for a moment. The ranks of the Hunters that had formed a human wall from the side entrance of this chamber to the foot of the King’s dais had somehow changed shape and form. Leading directly to the double doors the Hunter Lords had entered by was a dark, green carpet with a border of gold filigree nestled around brown. On either side of it stood Hunter Lords and their huntbrothers in three evenly spaced ranks. They carried spears by their sides, and they were now unhooded as they all looked, as one man, to the two who had passed the final test.
“Go now. I will call you again within the ten-day for the Sacred Hunt.”
Neither looked back; they had no choice, and no inclination, to do other than obey. Slowly, they began their silent procession, and as they did, banners unfurled above their heads. The first, a leaping stag on a white field, held by Hunter Lords, and older ones at that, on either side of the carpet. The second was a golden bear on a green field, held likewise. The third was a boar, black as pitch, again on a green field. And beyond it there was darkness; a field of ebony with a single, broken spear, a solitary broken horn.
Stephen paused before it; he had but to pass beneath it and he would gain the door. But he understood well what it was: the Hunter’s Death. Gilliam didn’t even seem to notice the way it hung like a pall above the day’s ceremony. He walked until its shadow covered his head before he realized that Stephen was no longer in step.
“Yes, Stephen of Elseth,” someone said, but although Stephen strained his eyes searching through the ranks closest to him, he could not see the speaker, “you see truly. But you will have no freedom now. You have accepted the path and must pass beneath this shadow, or it will hold you back forever.”
“Stephen,” Gilliam hissed, before his huntbrother could come up with an answer to that strange voice, “it’s just a bloody banner.”
A breeze blew in through the open doors, and the spear and horn disappeared in the sheen of moving black cloth. Stephen shook his head and grimaced in sudden embarrassment. “Sorry,” he whispered, as he walked quickly to join his brother.
“Doesn’t matter,” was the terse, but happy reply. “We did it. We’re in.” He crossed the threshold and waited patiently for Stephen to follow. “And do you know what it means?”
From the seriousness of the expression, anyone other than Stephen might have thought Gilliam had somehow managed to be affected by the ceremony. Bound by more than blood, Stephen couldn’t make that mistake, although he might have been happier had he been able to.
“You get to choose your dogs.”
“I get to choose my dogs!”
His father came out of the doors and into the nearly empty hall just in time to catch the echo of the words rebounding off beamed ceiling and walls. He arranged the hood to frame his head. “Gilliam!”
Gilliam turned and stopped. “Father?”
Soredon laughed. “Yes, there is the matter of your first pack. We’ll have to discuss it now, you and I—after this Hunt, you won’t be able to use my dogs anymore.”
They started to walk, and Stephen hung back by the doors, waiting for Norn to come out. It was only a few minutes, but long enough to lose sight of the Elseth Hunters as they turned the bend in the hall.
“Stephen, you did well.” Norn’s hood was a fold of cloth against his shoulder blades. “Where’s Soredon?”
“With Gilliam. Ahead. Talking about Gil’s hunting pack.”
“A bit premature, isn’t it?”
Stephen nodded.
“But you didn’t say anything?”
“No. He already knows. He doesn’t see his death in any of this.” His frustration was evident in more than the tone of his voice; his forehead was wrinkled, his brows gathered at the bridge of his nose.
Norn said, “I told you, they never do. Come on, let’s get a drink. I’ll take you to the Hunter’s garden.”
• • •
“The Hunter’s presence was strong today,” the King said softly, as the last of his Hunter Lords filed out of the hall. The banners that had formed a ceremonial rite of passage had been curled neatly against their poles. Servants would clear them away soon at the direction of Priests, and they would be held in keeping until next year’s passage.
“Yes,” was the quiet answer.
“And I gather from your tone, you’ve a feeling why.” The King rose carefully and walked away from the throne, sparing a backward glance for the antlers that rose like white shadow above him. “I’m too old for this, Iverssen. Tell me what it was.” He knelt, a solitary man on the dais used when he served as Master of the Game.
What a deadly game.
Iverssen’s square jaw tightened as he pulled his brown hood away from his face. A single, white scar that sun and time would never remove ran from his upper right eyelid to the point of his chin. Only a miracle had preserved his sight.
“What it was?” came the testy answer. “Hunter’s touch, I’d say.” He walked over to where the King knelt and stood before him. The King bent his head a moment, both to hide his irritation and to murmur the Hunter’s prayer—the one said only by the King.
Iverssen joined him with a counter-cadence. Their words mingled, at cross-purposes to begin, but in harmony at the end.
“They grow younger every year,” the King said, as he slowly removed the gold-trimmed green greatcoat that the passage ceremony demanded. It was followed by the rest of his finery, of which there was little enough: cuff links; two rings; his crown.
“Yes.” Iverssen took the coat and folded it, showing as much reverence as he ever did. He snorted as the rings hit his palm, and squinted as light circled the crown. “And not much smarter.”
“Iverssen.”
“Majesty.”
The King rose, clad now in a fine tunic that simply bore his colors in a crest above deep brown; his leggings were even plainer, and of the same color. “I have almost never felt His touch so strongly.”
Iverssen nodded gruffly. With a little twist, he made a bundle out of greatcoat and valuables that would set the seamstress screaming. “Almost never?” The question was grudgingly given.
“Maybe never,” the King answered, his thoughts turning inward. “You are no younger than I; you know that memory is never a trustworthy truth keeper.”
“I don’t think I want to hear this,” Iverssen said, but he stopped walking so his robes wouldn’t rustle.
“It was when I was a boy,” the King said quietly.
Iverssen’s face became a set study of rigid lines. “Majesty, you—”
“I was four.” The King’s voice grew distant as he faced a memory that was never very far away. “It was the day I watched my father and my grandmother kill my grandfather for the sake of all Breodanir. I saw what my father was that day, and I never doubted that he would succeed. He looked older, more powerful, and more harsh than I ever saw him before or after. He came to the throne room. I followed him. And he stood,” the King turned, “there. In front of the antlers. He was the very Hunter.”
Iverssen knew the “he” the King spoke of. “Your father was of the blood, and it ran true. Your grandfather was a foolish and weak man.”
“Was he?” The King’s voice was soft. “He was a man of great heart.”
“What great heart destroys the very people he is meant to rule and protect?” Iverssen’s words were cutting; they spoke seldom of this, for this very reason. “Your father was Breodani.”
“My father,” the King replied, with only a trace of bitterness, “was still judged by the Mother for the crime of patricide. He ruled a scant ten years.”
“Majesty,” Iverssen said, conveying perhaps less respect than the word demanded, “we are all judged for the crimes we commit, and I believe the judgment was not the Mother’s, but rather, Aered’s.”
“Yes.” The King shook his head. “As heir to the Breodani, my father had little choice. I know it. I’ve been told no less for the entirety of my life—and I believe it’s truth. But . . . I remember my grandfather, although not well. He was a gentle man.
“It broke my grandmother and my father. Killing my grandfather was the worst thing that either of them ever did—and they did it for the Breodani.
“My grandfather hated sending the young to their deaths. He listened to the foreigners, and I believe—if no one else does—that he wanted to end the Hunt to save his people. Not more, and not less. If it would not weaken our people, I would make that truth known.”
Iverssen’s pursed lips and lined brow made his thoughts on that revelation quite clear.
“As I get older, Iverssen, I understand my grandfather’s folly too well.” The King shook his head, his voice very soft as he spoke what was almost heresy. Iverssen was disquieted, but he had seen the King in many moods. During the ceremonies of the Sacred Hunt—or those leading up to them—that mood was often the most bleak, the darkest. It was not easy to sentence your followers to death. Still, he was King, and the mood must be put aside. They would leave these chambers soon, and melancholy was not a public sentiment. “But the Hunter’s power was strong today.”
“Yes,” Iverssen nodded.
“The Elseth brothers.”
“Yes.”
“You’re being very agreeable,” the King said wryly. “It’s unlike you, and I’m not sure that I favor the change.”
Iverssen snorted. “Agreeable, is that it?” But he started to walk again, absently swinging his precious bundle. “It was those two, yes. I don’t know why. But did you see the huntbrother? I didn’t think he’d make it to the throne.”
“I saw him. And I saw what he did as he left.”
“Aye, and I as well. The Death stopped him cold.” Iverssen shook his head quietly. “Think he has a touch of the seer-born?”
“Not unheard of,” was the equally quiet answer. “But I’m not sure that this is the case here. The Hunter God has some plan that requires one, or both, of them.”
“You’re certain?”
“As much as I can be. But time will tell, as always. Come; we have barely enough time to change and present ourselves for the festivities. Some young bard has journeyed all the way from Senniel College in Averalaan in order to woo the ladies of the court. I heard his song last eve, and it was . . . pleasant.”
“From Averalaan?” Iverssen’s frown made clear what he thought of that.
“He’s not a dignitary, Iverssen—he’s a bard, and a bard-born one at that. You know that the bards form no allegiances or alliances political. They travel with news and music, no more.”
It was obvious that the Priest felt the presence of an outsider improper just days before the most important ritual of the Breodani. He started to say as much, when the King held out a hand.
“He makes the Queen laugh, Iverssen. And almost nothing does before the Hunt. I’ve accepted the young man in the court for that reason. Do you question it?”
“No, Majesty,” Iverssen replied, bowing low. To that tone of voice, and that expression, there was no other answer.
“Good,” the King said. He turned and continued to walk until he reached the closed door. Iverssen opened it for him, just as the lowest of servants might, and the King passed him by, stopping at the last moment to meet the eyes of his closest friend. The matter of the bard was forgotten, as was his momentary irritation. Only things Breodani remained. “I ask you to pray to the Hunter, Iverssen. I know what happened the last time I felt His presence so clearly. Let there not be so terrible a price associated with it, this time.”
• • •
“No,” Norn said, as he adjusted Stephen’s jacket. “The King has no huntbrother. The closest he has is Priest Iverssen. Sometimes Priest Greymarten.”
Stephen looked at himself in the long oval mirror; his face was pale, his hair brushed back and drawn up around it. “Why not? He’s a Hunter, isn’t he?” It was a question that he had often wondered about, but had never pressed until now.
“Not just ‘a’ Hunter, no. You might have seen the difference today?” Stephen didn’t answer the question; Norn shrugged. “The King is the Hunter personified, when the Sacred Hunt is called. In the beginning of time, it was the King of our people to whom the Hunter God appeared. And it was with the King that the covenant between the Breodani and their God was forged. The King is the living vessel of the God at the time of the Hunt proper, and that vessel need not be reminded of . . . commonality. Not in the way the nobility must. Because the Hunter is not common in any way.
“Hold still; I’m beginning to think you’ve caught Gilliam’s jitters.”
Stephen waited patiently until Norn drew out of the mirror’s vision. “But the King hunts, doesn’t he?”
“Yes—” Norn shook his head. “I forgot. You’ve never hunted with the King. Yes, he hunts. He has his pack, just as Soredon does, as Gilliam will. But he never hunts without the Priests. They tend to him, as you tend to Gilliam. There are also the Huntsmen of the Chamber; when they hunt, they hunt in the King’s party. They offer him counsel and they offer him protection.
“Should you become such a one, you will learn an entirely new set of horn calls and obediences and services. The worst of which will be forcing Gilliam to conform to royal protocol.
“With all of that, a King doesn’t need a huntbrother. A King has to be closer to God than he does to the commoners, I’d imagine.” Norn shrugged. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. If the Betrayer had had a huntbrother, we’d never have had the famines and plagues.”
“Why not? The Betrayer didn’t listen to the Priests either. Why would he listen to a huntbrother?”
“How easy a time does Gil have when he’s set on ignoring you?”
Stephen smiled.
“Well, and maybe there you have it. A huntbrother’s bond is strong—maybe stronger than the sworn oath the King gives when he takes the crown. You and Gilliam will have Elseth as a responsibility, but you’ll have the luxury of watching over each other as well. The King can’t afford that partiality; he is sworn to all of Breodanir for his term.”
“Do the Kings die in the Sacred Hunt?”
“Stephen, you think too much of death,” Norn said quietly. He looked at Stephen’s still face in the mirror, and then relented. “A King died once. Harald the Second, if I recall correctly,” Norn answered as he walked to the window to see where the sun sat. “It was . . . it was not a good time for the kingdom; his son was too young. The Hunt wasn’t called the year after the King’s death.”
Stephen knew what that meant.
“And you’d know it, too, if you’d more time for our history. That’ll come, now that Gil is a Hunter proper and both of you have less to prove. The King’s vows are more complicated and subtle than ours were. One day, Stephen, you’ll be witness to them, for they must be taken at a gathering of the Sacred Hunt, and the Hunter Lords.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Aye, but I was young and impressionable. Now come; these festivities are paid for by the crown—do you think to make me miss them?”
• • •
“It’s a fine new generation of young Hunters, isn’t it?” Lady Alswaine looked out at the crowd with a predatory sparkle in her eyes. She had two daughters of marriageable age, and had every intention of pressing their interests with a suitable family. She had been quite the beauty in her time, and even now, with the spark of youthful verve faded, she was still one to catch and command the attention. She lowered the powder-pink fan and turned her gaze upon her companion.
“Indeed,” he replied softly. From long habit, his fingers strayed to his beard as he smiled across at her. Few women were his equal in height; she was one.
“What is this, Krysanthos? Have the mage-born become dullards with words in some vain attempt to equal the Hunter Lords?” Her smile was warm and only a trifle edged as it glanced off the back of her husband. There, from the gallery, she could see him surrounded by his hunting companions. They were involved in an animated discussion which no one not born to the Hunt could possibly have any interest in.
“Ah, your pardon, Lady. I was merely looking at the young Hunters. It is, after all, their occasion.” He leaned slightly over the edge of the gallery railings. “Who are those two?”
“Which ones? I’m afraid my sight is not as good as it used to be.”
He knew that her sight was as poor as an eagle’s, but smiled and indulged her; it cost him nothing. “The young, fair-haired one; he’s smartly attired—or rather, he wears his clothing like a huntbrother. I believe his Hunter is the dark-haired boy with his hands in the canapes, standing beside Astrid of the maker-born guild.”
“Ah, those two.” Her voice took on a lilt of interest. “I don’t know, but I believe they’re from Elseth. Come, why don’t we go down and congratulate them on their passage? It is why we’re here, after all.”
“Why not?” Krysanthos replied, offering Lady Alswaine a perfectly accoutered arm. She smiled as she slid her fingers around the black velvet of his sleeve. They took the stairs carefully and crossed the main floor with ease. The Hunter Lords didn’t notice their passage, and the other guests usually made way for Krysanthos; he wore the emblem of the Order of Knowledge, after all, and all who saw it, save perhaps untutored children, knew him for one of the mage-born. Vivienne, Priestess to the Mother, nodded coolly at his passing before turning again to listen to the words of a shy young man.
All of the nobles and all of the noteworthy people of the kingdom came to this feast and this festival of celebration. There—heard more than seen—the bard-born trilled some ageless, deathless melody of a Hunter’s bitter rite of passage. At the doors, priests of other orders could be seen making their entrance, chief among them Vardos, justice-born, with his gold-irised eyes, and his grim, severe face.
Lady Alswaine and her escort did not appear to notice their arrival; they were seeking other prey. “Hello,” Lady Alswaine said, as she released Krysanthos’ arm and walked up to one of the two young men.
Stephen looked up at her and smiled brightly. The hand that she offered, he took, holding it for exactly the right length of time. His hands were dry, and certainly not food encrusted. She would not have offered her hand to Gilliam.
“I’m Lady Alswaine. My husband is a Huntsman of the Chamber.”
“I met him earlier. I’ve heard that he’s a Hunter without match, except perhaps for the King himself.”
Clearly pleased, Lady Alswaine bowed her head, tipping her fan in Stephen’s direction. “You’ve been listening to him speak, then?”
A little “o” of shock came out before Stephen recovered himself. “He would never admit the truth of any of the tales, Lady.” Especially not while she was present.
Lady Alswaine was a tall woman. This was made clear to Stephen when she bent down to whisper in his ear. “Gilliam of Elseth has found himself a fine huntbrother. You will do Lady Elseth proud—you already have tonight.”
“Don’t monopolize the young man, Lady.”
Stephen turned at the words and stiffened. Years of etiquette lessons took over, and he held out his hand with a smooth smile as he performed the half-bow of equals. The bow was awkward. Stephen’s gaze was drawn and held by the platinum medallion that clung round the stranger’s throat. A slender crescent, a half moon, and the moon in full circle were raised in a triad that spoke of mystery and the light in darkness. Quartered in the moon at zenith were the symbols of the elements.
“Yes,” the man said quietly. “I am of the Order of Knowledge. Let me welcome you to our city.”
“Thank you, sir.” The words were formal, as stiff as Stephen himself. His fingers and legs tingled with the urge to be gone. The matters of the mage-born were not the concern of common men, and Stephen knew well the folly of trying to bridge the gap. All children, no matter whether they lived as unparented thieves in the lower city streets, or as wealthy scions of the highest families in the land, had heard many of the tales that surrounded the mage-born.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Krysanthos of the second circle. You are?”
“Stephen of Elseth.” He looked up and met the mage’s eyes. They were brown, palely tinted with flecks of gold and green, and they were clear and unblinking. In stories he had often read about how hair stood on end at the nape of one’s neck—and now he was certain it was no fanciful bardic wording.
“You’ve heard of Elseth, surely?” Lady Alswaine said, as she once again reached for the mage’s arm.
“Lord Elseth is a Master Hunter, I believe—and Elseth is a well governed preserve.” He did not raise his arm, or otherwise acknowledge Lady Alswaine’s unspoken request. Instead he stared at Stephen.
Stephen couldn’t look away. He froze as the eyes of the mage-born man came to life with a luminescent flare of blue. He could not even gasp as that light flashed forward toward his defenseless face.
“Stephen?”
Gilliam was there; suddenly Gilliam was at his side, instead of at the tables. His voice was quiet, concerned. He reached out quickly to place a hand on Stephen’s paralyzed shoulder.
The white mage-light sprang forward and fell short, dripping into nothing like an awkward spray of shining water. Stephen felt warmth for a moment, a familiar heat that radiated outward from a center no mage-light could reach. He caught Gilliam’s hand in his own and met the mage’s gaze squarely.
The mage shrugged; there was no hostility at all in his expression. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, young man. May you fare well in the Sacred Hunt.” He turned, moving neither too quickly nor too slowly, and left Stephen to wonder if his fear had grown fangs from his imagination.
“Who was he?” Gilliam asked, as he watched the velvet robes retreat.
“Krysanthos. Of the Order of Knowledge.”
“Mage-born.” Gilliam sounded as if he’d just swallowed something bitter. “I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I.” Stephen shivered. “I—I don’t know why.”
“He’s a mage.”
Which was as good an answer as any. Stephen shook off the shadows, but he stayed as close to Gilliam as possible for the rest of the evening. Which meant, of course, that Gilliam was remarkably well behaved for a young Hunter Lord.
• • •
Krysanthos was concerned. Although he had tried several times throughout the course of the evening, he had not been able to come close to the young Elseth huntbrother. He had made a cursory scan of all the rest and found them to be common, uninteresting young men; certainly not eager to go to the Hunter’s Death, but also caught up in their Lords’ pride.
But this Stephen worried him slightly. No other boy had reacted so strongly to what was a completely invisible use of magic—it was almost as if the youth had seen the flare of power, which was impossible.
The mage-born recognized the mage-born; it had always been so. And Krysanthos had seen no kinship, no like spark, in Stephen of Elseth. But he was certain the boy knew that a spell had been cast on him.
Angry, he paced the length of his chambers, pausing when he reached the carpet’s edge and turning on the ball of his heel. He hated Breodanir and longed to be quit of the place. Give him Essalieyan, and the most dangerous of missions there, and he would be content.
But no. He was here, with a mission that bordered on ludicrous for all its import, and a mystery that was not to his liking. For not only had the boy apparently been aware of his spell, he had also, somehow, negated it.
He pulled a tasseled bell. He would call the maid back and have her search, as thoroughly as she dared, the young man’s chambers. Some sort of protection spell, perhaps a maker-born amulet, was obviously behind this.
Yes. Of course. And when he found it, he would conveniently replace it with one less . . . potent. That done, he could catch the boy and mask out the memory of white-light and mage-spell. If that failed, he would have to resort to a common assassination—which might anger the Lord if any grew suspicious.
He walked over to the curtains and drew them aside. He had done it so often the finery of gold, brown, and green was beneath his notice. The sun was gone, the moon a crescent against the sky. Clouds ate away at the stars in blackness. It was time.
He let the curtains fall and left off tracing his impatient path into the carpet. The mirror in his bedchamber, perfectly dusted and gleaming in the light of his lamp, watched him like a sightless eye. That would change. He stood before it, saw the lines of concern around his lips and the corners of his eyes, and forced himself to smooth them into a cold, noncommittal expression. Pride made him pull his medallion from the folds of his shirt so it stood out as a proclamation of what and who he was.
The crackle of white mage-light came readily. It shot out and surrounded the mirror’s surface, dancing against it as if the silvered glass were liquid. He felt the pull of power as it left him; the cost of communication from Breodanir to the heart of the city of Averalaan was high. He was glad that he performed this spell so seldom. Unfortunately, recent casting times had come relatively close together and it took him some weeks to recover.
The mirror grew murky as it lost his reflection. The light without dwindled, and the light within grew, taking shape and substance until once again the mirror’s surface looked polished and reflective. It did not show his image.
“Sor na Shannen.” His bow was indolent, at best half-respectful—but he bowed.
“Krysanthos.”
He saw her back, and felt a flash of annoyance. She knew the time and the hour, and had had enough warning to comport herself with dignity. But no; the pale luminescence of her skin was completely uncovered. Her perfect shoulders rippled as she turned, slowly, to face him.
“You must be early.” She was seated on a low divan. Her hair was a spill of finespun night that trailed around exposed breasts and perfect torso. Her lips were red and full, her teeth a pale glimmer.
Against his will he felt himself responding. Annoyed, he cast a distancing spell with his personal power; it robbed some of the glamour of its strength—but not all. Sor na Shannen was a powerful demon, and she held her demesne in the Hells with an absolute strength that many of the demon lords admired. No others of her kind had made the climb to such a height.
“You’ve been long away from the Hells,” he said quietly. “Do you trust your lieutenant?”
Her smile fell away from sharp, white teeth. “I will return in good time.” But she was cold now, and in coldness, quite safe. “You have a report to make; make it. I have waited until now to feed, and I am impatient to be out.”
“It is as it has been for the last four years.”
He knew what she would say, and she did not disappoint him. “Are you certain?”
“I am certain.”
“The last four years and the last three months differ greatly in circumstance.” Her voice grew sharper. “You saw no sign of the Horn?”
“I have seen no sign of it.”
“The Spear?”
“The Spear is useless without the Horn,” he said, through teeth that were already clenching. “But no. I have seen no sign of the Spear either.”
She relaxed, and her eyes once again grew liquid and lazy. “I don’t need to remind you of their import.”
“No.” He smiled, as cold as she had been. “Had they been in my keeping, I would not have been required to waste precious energy to speak about them.”
She hissed, and his smile grew warmer. “Enough. The priests that were responsible have perished, and I, too, grow tired of this game.”
“Then let me return.”
“No. We know that the agent who stole the Horn and the Spear came from the King’s Forest in Breodanir; Ellekar perished there. We know that the girl was not a Hunter, and we know that the Horn’s power resides with the ‘Hunter-born.’ It must be there. We are less than ten years from the completion of our plans—the gate-spell goes well, and our Lord should soon have free access to the mortal lands. Find the Horn. Do not let it be winded.”
Krysanthos cut the connection before his annoyance built beyond tolerable levels. As soon as he knew the succubus’ personal name and sigil, he would send her back to the Hells—and into the demesne of her worst enemy. But for now he needed her, as she did him.
Another decade. Of this.